


Two

by AlexisGreen



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Character Death, Don't worry it's kinda happy and hopeful, Emotional, Growing Old, Growing Old Together, M/M, Made myself cry, Oh my heart, Part-I-dont-even-know-what, Part-reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:57:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2211417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexisGreen/pseuds/AlexisGreen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second chances come along, even for old hobbits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two

She's still standing there. Outside, on the road, looking in. Even in broad daylight, Bilbo doubts she can see inside, see them inside. He suddenly realizes he doesn't care. He pushes out past the open window and shouts. "You have a good day now, Lobelia!"

She scurries along, punctuating every few steps with a cross-eyed look behind, to where Bag End sits half-hidden among the hydrangeas and foxgloves that Hamfast works so hard to grow.

There's laughter in Bag End now. Who would have thought?

When Bilbo returned to the Shire, foreign-clothed and misty-eyed, he'd brought a darkness along with him. It hung about him for nigh on twenty years, in spite of spring's fragrance or summer's warmth or the hearth's welcome after an autumn stroll. Neither food, nor drink, nor Longbottom leaf would change that, for Bilbo was a changed hobbit, and where cheer and good nature used to dwell, now only broody silence lived.

Gandalf visited, as often as he could. The first time, it had been three years since the great battle. He spent the days tucked into Bag End, deep in thought, along side Bilbo. And if fireworks and adventures had brought hobbit and wizard together, reminiscing and somberly celebrating those that would have been tied their friendship even closer.

Next winter, it was Balin's turn to drop by, and Bilbo welcomed him with open arms. Bag End did fill with laughter then, for a while at least, for little hobbits like dwarven toys and the master dwarf had brought many along. But there was sadness too, for all joy their reunion brought, heaviness still weighed their hearts and they mourned those who departed.

Time slipped by, and in the next years, Bilbo saw less and less of his wizard and dwarven friends, and more and more of his hobbit folk. He gained a little bit of respectability back, since no more adventures and running away from home without as much as a handkerchief were mentioned. Life settled, not steeped in happiness, but at least in a small measure of contentment. Twenty years passed like that, quiet and understated.

The fellow claimed to be a hobbit. He was quite tall for a hobbit, Bilbo always meant to tell him, months on, when they were on first name basis, but never quite got the courage for it. He'd seen him around the market. One day, he was just there, sitting by the side of the bridge, watching the crowd. He was a new face, of course he'd be noticed. But then, he was there for the second day, and then the third, and more, and before Bilbo knew it, the fellow wasn't a new face anymore. Adalgrim Took and Andwise Roper told folks he'd been seen at the Green Dragon and that must have been true, because if the fellow had any companions, they went by the names of ale and wine.

Later, Bilbo would be hard pressed to tell what made him invite the stranger into his home for rabbit stew and a warm mug of stout. To his much-concerned neighbours, Bilbo justified that the wind had been cutting and the air smelled of snow and no honourable hobbit would allow a fellow Shirehobbit to freeze in the road. His neighbours and friends accepted the explanation. Yavanna knew, the hobbit was known for bouts of eccentricity. Even as odd as Bilbo had become, there was nothing improper about being a hospitable hobbit.

If Bilbo was true to himself though, that evening as he blew out the candle in his bedroom and tucked himself to bed, the gesture had nothing to do with his hobbitish hospitality. Nor with the loneliness he kept at bay with books, and tea, and dusty souvenirs of adventures part-regretted.

No, when Bilbo saw the stranger, he saw beyond the dirty clothes and unkempt form. He saw his eyes, the kind that had seen a lot. The kind Bilbo himself had only seen once before, many winters ago, blue eyes that had closed long before their time.

He didn't find out much about the fellow, that first evening over dinner. The stranger had been polite, but not much inclined to talk and he'd dashed out the door as soon as he'd cleared the last crumb of pie on his plate.

Bilbo found him in the market the next day though, sat by the bridge still. And he didn't say no when Bilbo requested some help with his basket, nor when Bilbo extended a second invitation to dinner that night.

Over onion soup and fresh bread, Bilbo observed his guest again. There was a hint of tameness to his hair now. His coat was buttoned up, brushed even. He'd made an effort, Bilbo knew. It made him happy to have listened to his instincts. Because those eyes were as entrancing as he remembered, because they made him think of campsites off the beaten track and horse rides through the wilderness and stone halls buried deep inside a fateful mountain.

It suited Bilbo just fine that the stranger didn't speak much. He claimed his memory was fuzzy, occasional glimpses of people and places, but no more than that. He claimed a head injury was to blame. It didn't matter. It didn't stop a silent understanding growing between them, the plumpish, odd hobbit with greying temples, who lived among his precious relics of the past, and the taller, odd hobbit (which Bilbo continued to doubt) with little recollection of his past and no stories of his own to tell.

They made a queer pair, decidedly, as the stranger began to knock at Bilbo's door about eleven-ish each week day, to offer his arm and help Bilbo down the road. He'd take Bilbo's basket and run errands for him, or simply walk together. He took over chores, at Bilbo's side, like gardening when Bilbo's knees began to wobble, or laundry, or cooking that rainbow trout the hobbit was so fond of.

It was during one of their long walks that Bilbo found out the stranger's name. Thurinson. By the Valar! Even the name was unhobbit-like and Bilbo blurted as much, heart trapped in his chest. Thurinson had shrugged, "It's just a name. I haven't cared for it much. Sometimes, it doesn't even feel like my own."

Bilbo assured him it was of no import. That was that. And if over the years, Bilbo slipped and called him by a different, yet so similar name, well Thurinson never much cared indeed, nor corrected him.

It was late winter, a year after their first meeting, howling winds chasing snow around Hobbiton, when Bilbo pushed past his last reservations and asked Thurinson to move into Bag End. A small satchel and very few belongings later, some heirlooms that even Thurinson was unsure of how they came onto him, the so-called move was complete. Thurinson now occupied one of the bedrooms at the deep end of the smial, a large, comfortable bed and a warm fire waiting for him at the end of the day. That and a hobbit who grew older and smiled more each day.

Thurinson took to carving wood that spring. He said he wanted to pay his share of food and drink in Bag End. Bilbo protested, not to the craft itself, but to the idea that repayment would be expected. To find the right words to describe his feelings towards having Thurinson in his home… the hobbit had no eloquence for that. Little treasures came out of Thurinson's efforts though and Bilbo encouraged it, because to him, nothing beat sipping tea and watching Thurinson's strong hands cut and chisel oak and walnut.

Thurinson travelled to Bree to sell his crafts, maybe a couple of times that summer. The first time he returned to Bag End, he interrupted Bilbo's dinner. He couldn't have realised, thought Bilbo, stunned in his round doorway, what his return would do to him.

Hair at his temples braided as no hobbit custom was, large shoulders filled out and the month's stubble trimmed neat, Thurinson was welcomed back home, with smiles and gentle hugs. Bilbo's pulse did cartwheels in his throat nevertheless, memories of another night, when a different guest, unwelcome at the time, had knocked on the door and trampled into his home and his heart. It didn't escape Bilbo how foolish he'd been, ah, the folly of his youth, all fussiness and worry over crockery and tablecloths.

A hope he did not dare voice aloud was born that night, as crickets sang beneath the windows, as Thurinson washed hands into a bowl over the kitchen sink and joined him at the table. A foolish hope, no doubt fuelled by his Tookish side, that perhaps the good Valar had not meant for him to spend his long twilight years withering alone. That perhaps, as astonishing as it seemed, the dwarven would-be king had returned to him, stripped of sickness, to start anew.

And that's how old age finds Bilbo. Laughter lines creasing around his eyes again, hot meals warming his belly after long walks over the hills of the Shire, a strong arm there for support when his hip bothers him, a handsome companion in all. His life's adventures no longer cause him distress or bring on despair, but rather, he likes to think, a respectful appreciation for second chances.

And just so, death one day finds him and Thurinson both, asleep side by side and hand in hand, peaceful, in the den at Bag End, a key-shaped medallion around Thurinson's neck, one golden ring on Bilbo's finger.


End file.
